


The Azzano Tribulation

by charcoalwinter



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bad Thoughts, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon Compliant, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: The First Avenger, Dissociation, Gen, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Memory Loss, Not Beta Read, Patient Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Take 1, The Howlies Look After Bucky, Torture, Trauma, with a sprinkle of artistic licence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:02:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoalwinter/pseuds/charcoalwinter
Summary: A narrative detailing the thoughts and conducts of a captured, rescued, and healing James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, set after the Battle of Azzano, October 1943.There will be one chapter per milestone plus a bonus chapter from Steve’s point of view.Please read the tags.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, can be read either way - Relationship
Kudos: 31





	1. revived

**Author's Note:**

> Artistic licence has obviously been taken because I don’t really think that Bucky would be as okay as he seemed to be in CA: TFA. After what we’re clearly supposed to think he’d been through when he was under Zola’s control… please. 
> 
> I do not own Marvel or any of Marvel’s characters. The writing is my own work and all mistakes are solely mine. Due to the nature and setting of this particular fic, a couple of scenes and pieces of dialogue have been taken directly from CA: TFA and some have been edited to suit the plot and for variation between other similarly-themed fics. Please do not make any of the actors aware that this exists.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> revive - give new strength or energy to; improve the position or condition of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that contains the majority of the torture that is written in detail. Everything that follows is the aftermath of the capture and only references to Bucky’s time in Azzano without explicitly describing the events as this chapter does. 
> 
> In regard to the things that Bucky goes through under Zola, it’s all pretty canon-compliant e.g. the serum injections and the electric chair, so if you’re worried about some horrible torture surprise that might be triggering for you, you should be okay here if you’re alright with watching CA: TFA and CA: TWS. 
> 
> With all that said, please let me know if there is anything that I need to tag that I’ve missed, because I have no intention of hurting or causing anyone distress.

The bespectacled man that Bucky _thinks_ might be the scientist in charge -but _knows_ is definitely his nemesis and the reason for all his suffering-, is back. It takes all the effort that he can dredge up from his tired soul to not whimper when he realises who is presently entering the space of his personal torture chamber.

A visit from the stout man always means hours of strangers looming over his helpless body as experiments are carried out, notes are taken, and Bucky crosses the line between being conscious and stupefied too many times to perceive which way is up.

Perhaps the worst procedures are the injections; the icy liquid flowing into his bloodstream always leaves him writhing in the most unbearable pain, digging his battle-worn fingernails into his palms, his whole body caught up in endless shivering from a delicate combination of fear and cold.  
Eventually, the frost in his veins does start to melt and for a few moments of brilliant reprise, Bucky gets a chance to breathe, his lungs relaxing and able to pull in enough air to counteract the dizziness that threatens to pull him into unconsciousness. At this point, there’s a limited period of emptiness; no movement, no pain, no thoughts – just blank eyes and the whisper of every savoured breath.  
And then his body proceeds to heat even further. He travels quickly past comfortable, past unpleasant, past arduous and steamrolls into excruciating. The sheen of cold sweat on his skin increases and the salty liquid runs down his limbs in droplets, soaking his already-filthy clothing that feels suffocating to his weak, burning body.

His days -however many are crawling by- are being spent screaming so loudly, so continuously, that it feels like his throat is going to tear itself open and leave him lying on this fucking table, finally limp as he bleeds out through his windpipe. Bucky doesn’t know whether such a death would be preferable to this current standard of living. He thinks it might be.

The only things holding him back from actively praying for sweet release or figuring out some way to end his life himself are his baby sister and his Stevie who are waiting at home. He promised he’d come back to them. _He promised._ _They’re waiting._

The steady steps from the Nazi’s shoes echo around the room as he comes closer, disrupting Bucky’s downward spiral of thoughts. “Ah, my favourite patient.”

Bucky flops his pounding head to the side so he’s facing the door, pulling a fresh surge of courage from somewhere deep within to glare into his tormentor’s smug face with tired and aching eyes. Some days the bravery is near-impossible to come by; other days he finds it in spades.

The doctor chuckles. “You, Sergeant Barnes, are proving to be my most promising candidate. Tell me, how is my best asset feeling on this drizzly morning?”

Turning his head back to face the ceiling, Bucky says the only thing that he has used willingly used his voice for since he was dragged away from the rest of his men. “James Barnes, Sergeant, 3255 7038.”

“Hmm,” ~~Zoom?~~ ~~Zero?~~ ~~Zora?~~ _Zola,_ murmurs. “I think we are ready to move you on to the next step in your development. You have been absorbing my most recent batch very well. No other soldier has survived as long as you, you know.”

Bucky tries to ignore his fear-borne twitch at the words. Is the unknown worse than the known? What about when the thing Bucky knows is endless doses of Nazi-brewed substances and physical tests that are more than enough to turn him into a praying man and wish for the cessation of his existence? Can anything be worse than that? He dreads to find out.

“James Barnes, Sergeant, 3255 7038.” The mantra helps to soothe the terror, but only slightly. It’s a comfort, a constant, something of his own. Whenever the urge to say something rises, he says these words instead, and they remind him who he is and what he’s fighting for. They’re a balm, thinly applying a gentle hope of healing to the surface of the gaping wound that is his terror and uncertainty.

In the back of his mind, Bucky notes that Zola takes his usual approach to these words and ignores them. The doctor gestures to one of the two ever-present guards. Bucky isn’t sure what the gesture means, but he knows it’s too good to be true when one of the men -a burly brute with gnarled, scarred hands- tears away his ankle restraints.

Bucky tries to remain as still as possible as his sluggish and aching body is freed, cuff by cuff.

Even though the three other men in the room are expecting it and he is very much aware of that fact, Bucky still makes a vain effort to get the fuck out of there once he can, pride be damned. To his dismay, though, all he manages is a lazy roll to one side, groaning softly as he goes. Miraculously, he almost makes it off the table, but the second guard’s thick arms catch him around his chest and waist before he can fall to the floor.

_Oh well._

He’s leaning limply on the guard; the one with blond hair, crooked teeth, bad breath, and a body that’s just as muscular and powerful as Scar-Hands’ is. Maybe in his glory days, Bucky could have taken either one of them on, but now, after what must be _weeks_ of torture and neglect, he stands no chance; he can barely even hold himself upright.

Bad-Breath drags Bucky’s weakly struggling body away from the table and over to an intimidating metal chair-like contraption that has been eerily hovering and waiting in the background of everything that Bucky has already been through in this room. Bucky is dumped ungracefully onto it and strapped down at the wrists and ankles before he even gets the chance to protest or move away.

Jerking tiredly in the unforgiving restraints, Bucky knows he isn’t going anywhere. He looks up at Zola, who is standing in front of him and leaning forwards slightly, as if carefully observing an animal at the zoo. The man hasn’t said anything yet, but Bucky is waiting for a smug, pompous speech that should be arriving any second.

“The serum injections have been working well for you, Sergeant Barnes,” he begins in his accented, nasally voice. _Ah, here we go._ “However, I think we are not quite done administering them. We can still improve.” Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ Bucky doesn’t know whether he can take any more of the drugs. “I have this rather tricky invention that you should be strong enough to survive, if the most recent tests are to be believed.”

Zola pauses, like he’s awaiting a response from Bucky.

Bucky, obliging, spits in his face and receives a quick, brutal slap to his cheek in return. Scrawny and pathetic though the doctor may physically be, he can apparently make it sting. Still, it’s not much compared to everything else Bucky has felt at the hands of this particular Nazi piece of rubbish.

“James Barnes, Sergeant, 3255 7038,” Bucky forces himself to say. He is petrified of this man and his insane experiments and the pain they cause and how it’s almost like he can feel his body stitching itself together after the various wounds have been left alone, even though he knows that’s not what is actually happening because that isn’t possible. Every minute that passes, Bucky needs more fortitude and more spirit to stand up to the mad-man. He feels himself running low on stores and he doesn’t know how long he has left until those stores run dry and he breaks.

“I know, Sergeant,” Zola sighs standing upright so he’s no longer in Bucky’s face. “I am, quite honestly, getting tired of hearing what you have to say if that is all you can come up with.”

Well, Bucky is nothing if not stubborn. If he’s going to get abused no matter how he behaves, he might as well stay true to himself and the tatters of pride that remain with him. “James Barnes, Sergeant, 3255 7038.”

It looks like Zola has to hold himself back from delivering another swift slap. Bucky isn’t sure why the doctor doesn’t just go for it, but he’s relieved. He has enough anxiety bubbling inside without a throb on his right cheek to match his smarting left one.

“If that is how you want to be, that is fine,” the doctor says, stiffly. “Hopefully, after you become properly acquainted with my creation, you will not be able to recall your beloved name, rank, and service number. You will only know Hydra and the greatness you were truly destined for.”

“I’ll not be doing jack-shit for you, pal,” Bucky angrily breaks from his pre-prepared script. He instantly regrets in when he sees a toothy smile form on Zola’s pompous, punch-able face.

The man hums, still smiling, and calls over his shoulder for some more of Bucky’s enemies to enter. They’re the ones who take his blood and measure his heart and blood pressure. They’re the ones who place singular ice chunks into his mouth so he can drink as they melt, and catch his urine in bed-pans when he can’t hold on any longer. They are obviously not as bad as Zola, but nobody in this hellhole that proudly wears a Swastika patch or one of those weird skull pins with the tentacles on it is any ally of Bucky’s.

One of the new men -and Bucky thinks these men might be doctors too, though they clearly aren’t as insane as Zola or, he hates to even consider it, as clever- approaches Bucky carefully. He is confident and shows no sign of hesitancy at Bucky’s continuous glaring. His movements are well-calculated as he reaches out and removes the needle from Bucky’s arm that has been providing him with some sort of nutrient fluid, likely the only thing that has been keeping him alive because he sure as fuck hasn’t had anything to eat since being here.

It stings a little as it pulls out, but Bucky easily ignores the mild discomfort. The drip has never been taken out before and the serious intenseness of the room suddenly has him more fearful than he had been at the thought of having one of his regularly scheduled Hell-jections.

He whispers quietly to himself, staring down at his fisted hands. “James Barnes, Sergeant, 3255 7038.” He can do this. “James Barnes, Sergeant, 3255 7038.” Whatever they have planned, he can get through it. “James Barnes, Sergeant, 3255 7038.”

A sudden vibration trembles his body lightly as the machine he’s sitting in comes to life. Bucky’s eyes widen in terror and he looks up from his lap and into the sparkling eyes of Doctor Arnim Zola.

“Try to relax, dear boy. My work will change the world and you are just the beginning.” Zola nods at one of the unnamed doctors and then turns his attention back to Bucky. “Hail Hydra.”

The hum of the machine kicks up a notch.

“N-no,” Bucky stutters, forgetting his attempt to be stoic, to hold himself together. “Pl-plea-ease.” The fear is too much this time. He can’t do this anymore. He wants to go home, to his Stevie. He can’t be strong.

Something rubbery is shoved into his mouth and Bucky instinctually holds it tightly between his teeth. Something else, possibly metal but definitely solid, closes around his head, covering the left side of his face and making him blind out of one eye. He closes both of them so he doesn’t notice the absence of half of his vision. It only helps a little.

The whirring gets louder and louder, bouncing around the inside of his head, reverberating off his skull and cutting out any noise that might be occurring outside of his own private world. Bucky’s breathing gets heavier with each passing second, anticipating the pain. He feels like he’s going to be sick with apprehension.

And then the awaited agony hits him in a burst of white light and scorching heat.

Bucky can’t hold back his scream for even a second. It erupts from his dry throat, raw and animalistic. The rubber clenched between his teeth does nothing to stop the sound escaping.

Whatever is touching his face seems to get hot, overly hot, so hot it burns. It tightens on and off, pulsing like it’s squeezing his brain. His head is going to explode. A human body cannot take this kind of pressure. He can think of nothing but the shocks entering through his head and shaking through his entire body. Shocks, like electricity. He’s never been struck by lightning, but he can’t imagine that even _that_ would be this bad. People survive lightning strikes; he’s heard the stories.

Nobody could survive _this_ …

But then he does.

He must, because when the vibrating and the humming and his screaming have stopped, when his torso slumps forward, no longer able to stay upright now that there is nothing supporting his head, a choked sob erupts from his aching throat. Dead people can’t make sounds or feel pain. Can they?

Someone is grabbing him. Two people. He’s jostled and pulled and his languid body puts up no resistance. There’s a cold, hard surface under him. He recognises it as his table, the smooth metal familiar to his sweaty palms. There’s a tightness around his wrists and his ankles and it’s soft with a little bit of give, unlike the harshness of the restraints on the chair. There’s murmuring and the scratching of pens on paper somewhere in the room, and then there’s footsteps and a door closing, and then there’s nothing.

For the first time, he lets himself cry. Huge, heaving gasps and loud, ugly sobs; tears streaming down his temples into his hairline and his ears; snot pooling in the divots that his face makes as he scrunches up his nose and mouth in distress, a rotten helplessness all that he feels, damaging his will to stay strong.

He cries and cries and thanks any and all gods that Steve is back at home, safe from the possibility of this horrific nightmare ever becoming a reality for him. He cries because he can remember Steve, Becca and his mum and dad, and Old Man Gregory who lived in the apartment above him and always played music at 7am sharp.

He cries because he can do all of that but he can’t remember his own name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is currently 3/4 of the way complete and I will upload the rest of the chapters when it’s all done.
> 
> You can subscribe to this if you want to get notified when the next chapter gets posted or you can stop here and read it as a one shot. Up to you!
> 
> xx


	2. relieved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> relieve - cause (pain, distress, or difficulty) to become less severe; take (a burden) from someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The increased use of ‘he’/‘his’ in the place of a name is not a lapse in writing but a conscious decision that I made to further reinforce the periods of time when Bucky doesn’t really understand who he is. It won’t be like this for long - just whenever Bucky’s memory slips.
> 
> Just a couple of lines of dialogue and one or two scenes taken from CA: TFA in this chapter. You’ll recognise them when they show up; I’m sure this ain’t your first rodeo. I’ve edited them slightly to suit the story but I’d still like to leave this disclaimer here because I don’t wanna get in trouble.

His once-feared metal gurney has become a haven.

At first, every minute spent on the table was torture. There were men hovering over him constantly, injecting him with unknown chemicals or cutting up his skin for some sort of testing. He was monitored around the clock and the only time he got a moment to breathe was when he inevitably passed out from exhaustion.  
Now, he’s still incessantly watched, but having someone’s eyes on him hardly registers as an invasion anymore. With everything that the doctors have done to him, them observing his every blink and twitch is the very least they could be doing, and so for that, he is grateful.

If he’s lying on his bench, there’s a drip in his arm that feeds him the bare minimum of nutrients he needs to survive, but there’s no pain anymore. Nobody touches him, and the icy-hot injections have suspiciously ceased. He doesn’t have the energy or brain power to wonder why.

When he’s not lying on his bench, there’s the metal chair. Every time he’s pushed into that monstrous contraption and tied down, he feels like he loses a part of himself. He’s sure he used to be more than a toy for scientists to play with. He knows he worked for them in a factory with other miserable men but he doesn’t think that was by choice. He can’t imagine wanting to side with people that could stomach doing this to another human being.

He talks to himself for the illusion of friendly presence when his voice will cooperate, but oftentimes he finds that it hurts more to make use of his vocal cords than it does to lie in silence with scattered, half-formed thoughts to keep him company. His steady rotation of guards are no help to his entertainment, either doing their best imitations of a statue and paying him no attention whatsoever, or talking amongst themselves in a language he can’t understand and paying him no attention whatsoever. Either way, he gets nothing from them.

Between his tired, nonsense rambling and the broken memories of war and his endless staring at guards trying to see one of them move, he gets flashes of innocent faces that he knows don’t belong in this dim and horrifying scene with him. He thinks they must be important to him. Or his past self, anyway. There’s the laughing teenaged girl with rosy cheeks and pigtails that swing in the breeze as she runs. A younger sister, perhaps? There’s an older woman with gorgeous brown hair streaked artfully with grey, smiling as she dances around a tiny kitchen with a gentle-faced man of a similar age. Were they his parents? His brain is too muddled to come to any solid conclusions as to who they are and who they are to him, but he hopes that they are safe.

It has been at least one whole day, he thinks, maybe two, since his last visit to the chair, when the building around him starts to shake and he can hear loud noises coming from far away. He wonders what it is. His guards leave the room and he is left only with Doctor Zola, whose name seems to grow stronger in his mind as he loses his grip on everything else.

The doctor eyes him, something that could be called _hesitation_ sparkling in his beady eyes.

He looks right back, saying nothing, doing nothing.

After a few moments, Zola starts rummaging around draws and pulling his notes off the walls in a hurry.

Unsure of what this means and too exhausted to expend effort figuring it out, he returns his staring to the light on the ceiling, watching as it slowly fuzzes and disappears out of focus. Distantly, he hears footsteps but they don’t mean anything. There is no meaning to anything. Even the words he mutters are reduced to senseless sounds.

“Sergeant, 3255 7038. Sergeant, 3255 70…”

The words don’t sound quite right. It’s like there’s something missing but for the life of him, he can’t figure out what. He continues to repeat the phrase anyway. It feels comfortable and right, like it’s something he’s done a lot.

Suddenly, he picks up a noise that interrupts his mumbling as it doesn’t match the thundering commotion that has yet to cease. He slowly works at pulling himself back down to Earth, his vision getting sharper with each blink that feels like sandpaper scraping over his dry eyes. The footsteps are back but they’re softer than before. Did Zola forget something? Is it one of his doctors? It can’t be a guard; they were all much too heavy and aggressive to belong to these careful prints.

His restraints are being ripped away -which he knows is not something that anybody has permission to do without Zola in the room- and then there is a face hovering above him. It isn’t Zola but it is somehow familiar, the question of who this person is tickling the back of his mind the way the young girl and the happy couple do.

“Is… is that…” He can’t find the right words. He hasn’t communicated anything of import since he told the Nazi scumbags to _“go fuck yourselves, you cowards”_. That was when he was being dragged away from the men he’d been working next to in the factory. If he thinks hard enough, maybe he can remember their names… their faces…

“It’s me, it’s Steve.”

“S-Steve?” Yes, that’s it. _Steve_. He remembers a thin boy, often sick with something or other, eyes too large for his face, floppy straw-coloured hair. Steve.

Steve pulls him up from his table and places a huge hand on the side of Sergeant’s face. “I thought you were dead.” His hands didn’t used to be this big or warm. Did they?

“I thought you were smaller?”

 _Wait,_ Steve is meant to be at home, safe and watching over the old, scraggly alley cat that begs them for food every morning. Steve shouldn’t be in this place, this _nightmare_. Steve is not supposed to be this big; a few inches taller than himself and stacked with muscles that make the old butcher from home look like a pre-pubescent school boy. He remembers Steve.

“What happened to you?”

“I joined the army,” he says, like it’s the most obvious explanation in the world as to why he is now a foot taller and weighs a hundred pounds more than he did the last time he saw him, whenever that may have been.

Shaking the thought, he lets Steve pull him to his feel and out of the room. The raging cacophony of explosions and gunfire and crackling fire is louder in the corridor, the heat of the building rising and soaking through both of their tattered uniforms with sweat and filth. Feeling weak and lethargic, he’s at a loss as to how his unsteady legs are still underneath him as Steve guides him through hallways and up stairways until they’re standing on the edge of a flame-filled pit.

Across the way stands Zola and another man who, though he doesn’t recognise him immediately, sends fear bubbling to his stomach. That fear warps and transforms into nausea when he reaches up and _pulls off his face_ to reveal blood red skin. Is that what _he_ looks like now, after the injections and the torture and the repeated electrocution? Barely human? He feels it.

For the most part, the interaction that follows between the three other men is lost to him as he put most of his energy into leaning heavily on the nearest railing and trying not to keel over. His body feels strangely strong and weak at the same time, like he has the ability to stand and walk and run without losing breath but there’s a bone-deep exhaustion and stiffness that’s not allowing him to do so.

Aside from this, now that he’s up and moving, no longer strapped to his table or strapped to his chair, he seems to be remembering more. Maybe it’s the increased blood flow through his body or the fact that it’s been long enough since he last felt his brain rewiring itself, but not only does he know Steve, but he realises now that he’s in the army. His uniform, his capture, the men in the factory, those once meaningless but comforting numbers… this is war. That’s why Steve is supposed to be at home. He couldn’t enlist because of his health problems, but now…

When his brain slips back into gear, the monsters are gone and Steve is dragging him up another flight of stairs and nudging him onto a narrow beam that crosses the burning chasm fifty feet below. Not terrifying at all. He hesitates but Steve urges him on, voice earnest and strong and bursting with something that compels him to obey. And so, he does; slowly and carefully, he puts on foot in front of the other, over and over, gasping at each jerk of the beam which feels very much like it’s slipping, _holy shit._ He jumps at the last second, instinct controlling his movements and propelling him into and over the railing on the other side, just as the beam gives up and, with the harsh screeching and groaning of metal on metal, falls.

 _Steve_.

He looks up and calls out to his trapped rescuer, saviour… friend? Steve calls at him to go, to leave him behind but he knows, somehow, that that never has and never will happen.

“No! Not without you!” _Don’t leave me alone. I’m not going to be alone again. I don’t mind dying if it means I’m not alone. I won’t leave you._

Being alone means that there’s a much larger possibility that this is all a hallucination, a sign of his steady decent into madness gaining a violent increase in speed and urgency; he doesn’t know whether he can handle this potential escape from Hell not being real. But somehow, worse than that, being alone means that he isn’t with Steve, and that thought hurts the most because Steve tugs at something inside of him, something inexplicable, untouchable, and undeniably important. Though he isn’t sure what it is, he can’t deny that consuming, relentless draw.

The responsive look on Steve’s sweaty, dust-covered face is one of resignation. He watches on, confused and desperate, as Steve bends a piece of railing in half ( _?!_ ) and takes a few steps back. The man sighs before running towards the pit and taking a large, powerful leap off the edge.

A part of him explodes with disbelief while the other part churns a mixture of anxiety and horror into a strangely familiar annoyance. When Steve lands, crashing through the railing on his side of the gap and tumbling to the floor, he storms the few feet over to him and tugs him up by his arm.

“What the hell was that, Steve?”

The blond looks at him, shrugs, and pulls him along as he starts running to the exit. “We gotta go, now. This whole place is about to blow.”

Stumbling awkwardly as he tries to stay in control of his exhausted limbs, he stares at Steve’s back as they make their way through more hallways. “I think it’s already blown,” he mumbles.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

By the time he and Steve are out in the open and heading to the cover of the forest, he’s running without too much trouble. Not only that, but he’s keeping up with Steve, whose breathing suggests he’s curled up in a chair and reading an uninteresting book, when in reality he looks as though he’s trying to break a world record for the fastest mile. The adrenaline surging through their systems… that’s the only explanation he’s got.

They must run for at least thirty minutes, the impressive pace never wavering, until voices start to become audible amongst the trees. Steve halts him silently with a hand raised in the air and they both pause, filling their lungs with deep and measured breaths. The company sounds close, definitely less within a hundred metres, probably closer to fifty. He finds it mildly surprising that whoever is ahead doesn’t seem to be making any attempt to smother their noises or keep their position hidden, but then he sees Steve smile and wave him on towards the ruckus. He dutifully follows, trusting.

When the two of them step through the treeline into the crowd of soldiers setting up camp, it’s immediately evident that these men are from their side. If Steve’s behaviour hadn’t already confirmed it, the men’s accents, uniforms, presence of cheering and lack of shooting did. Quickly, mugs of hot water are shoved into their hands and they’re guided to the nearest fire with heavy hands clapping down on their shoulders and murmurs of thanks aimed mainly at Steve, but strangely, also at him.

By the time they’re ushered to the ground before the gentle heat of the flames, he feels overwhelmed and very much at the mercy of his exhaustion. Men come and go, nodding gratefully to Steve and shaking his hand with hope in their eyes.

It isn’t until a booming voice shouts “Barnes!” that he lifts his fuzzy head from the bulk and comfort of his friend’s shoulder and looks around.

A large man is walking confidently towards them, a bowler hat balanced on his head and an extraordinary moustache gracing his top lip. A few other men follow behind him and unlike everyone else so far, this group approaches him directly without addressing Steve first.

He smiles at them after shooting a nervous look to Steve. “Barnes?” he whispers, more to himself than for the benefit of others. It sounds familiar and good, feels like pulling on a shirt and finding that it fits perfectly in all of the right places. Is he Barnes?

_Barnes, Sergeant, 3255 7038._

Suddenly, he’s back on the table, gasping for air and stuck fast as a scalpel runs the length of his calf and a discussion is had around him regarding the speed of the healing. Nobody does anything about the blood pooling on the table or the screams that are pushing through his best attempts at sealing his lips shut. He’s not free, he’s still their plaything, their experiment, their-

“Bucky? Bucky, are you okay?”

Bucky. That feels familiar, too. A warm familiar. Like instead of a shirt, it’s his favourite sweater - a bit worn out with age and love but entirely his. The word tickles the back of his brain, but not in the terrifying way that his chair did when it was about to start its process. It’s more like when he gets the flashes of people and scenes that he thinks must be his loved ones and his memories. It’s pleasant.

He blinks, looking up to find all eyes on him.

“Sorry,” he chokes out, voice rough. “Just got a little lost.” He tries to crack a smile and shake away the shockingly realistic vision.

Steve’s face, not as pale and narrow as he thinks it should be, is covered with worry and the rest of them appear concerned and wary. Bucky -he takes control of his name- just quietly sips at the water that he somehow still holds and begs his hands not to shake.

Thankfully, the bowler hat man breaks the silence. “Never got to introduce myself earlier, by the way. Timothy Dugan at your service,” he tips his hat in a mockery of polite society, a playful smirk on his lips. “The boys call me Dum Dum.”

Bucky takes note of everyone as they introduce themselves to Steve. With each name and grinning face comes a host of memories; flashes of running through muddy trenches, sombrely raising a glass to a fallen comrade, laughing around a table with hot bowls of soup and dried out bread before them. These men were his friends, his _family_ , and as the evening progresses and the fire continues to warm their little bubble of respite, he comes to realise that they meant a lot to him. They still do. As much as he means to them, in fact.

He stays relatively withdrawn as the conversation flows around him, only speaking up once or twice or engaging when someone speaks specifically to him. Mostly he listens, leaning against Steve’s warmth and resting his eyes. Nobody seems to mind.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

It’s completely dark when Steve finally announces that they should all retire. Bucky is barely awake, finally feeling relaxed and safe enough to let down his guard. He pays no attention as the night rotation is organised, moves only when Steve half carries him to the base of a tree and lies them down on his jacket. Looking around through tired eyes, Bucky sees other men doing the same, settling in for a cold night and several days of walking back to base through enemy territory.

It feels unreal that only hours ago, he was trapped and alone. And who came to save him but a giant version of his skinny, sick best friend.

“Lil’ Stevie Rogers,” he mumbles into Steve’s chest.

“Yeah, Bucky, it’s me, Stevie.”

“Bucky,” he hums to himself. That’s him. “I thought you were smaller.” Bucky pokes at the muscles that shouldn’t be there. They’re firm, but have enough give that they’re comfortable to rest his head on, so he doesn’t really mind their presence. He quickly starts slipping into sleep, the repetitive movement of deep, steady breaths lulling him gently away.

“Night, Buck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shrug* I _think_ I’ve proof-read it enough but it seems like no matter how hard you try, you always miss something with your own writing, so let me know if there’s any glaring issues.
> 
> Hopefully calling Bucky ‘him’ and ‘he’ constantly wasn’t too difficult or awkward to read? He’ll be back to Bucky from now on… as long as his thoughts stay in order.
> 
> Half of chapter 3 and most of chapter 4 has been written. I’m always at work and don’t get much time to write, but hopefully the next update will be around the 25th-30th of this month. I’d love to hear your thoughts so far!
> 
> xx


	3. released

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> release - allow or enable to escape from confinement, set free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again. Sorry about the delay - I ended up working 55 hours last week between both jobs and almost as many this week and have just been too tired to find time to write.
> 
> Warning for nightmare/flashback of Bucky’s time as a prisoner. It’s not gory or detailed torture and it’s nothing that hasn’t already been covered, but there is the element of panic that comes with such topics, so be careful if this might be triggering for you!
> 
> Also, Bucky is obviously in a bad place and some of these jealous and self-deprecating thoughts are a result of that. They’re not necessarily his true beliefs (or mine), but they are what’s running through his head as he struggles to deal with everything.
> 
> Also, also, time jumps! because I didn’t want to bore with unnecessary bits. Just assume there’s a montage or two of the Howlies (featuring hurt!Bucky) kicking some Nazi butt and venturing around doing World War II things.

The morning after the break out is an early start. It’s a sight to behold; over one hundred and fifty men, hungry, injured and exhausted, rising at the break of dawn to continue the march to the safety of base camp. The show of strength and stamina and the sheer will to survive is obvious as every soldier helps the one next to him, the most wounded and suffering carefully loaded into the backs of the stolen trucks for an easier journey.

Steve tries his hardest to make Bucky one of those men, but Bucky, as run down as he is, refuses. There will always be someone more in need of a break than him and as long as Steve is marching, Bucky will be right by his side, the way he has been for many years and aims to be for many more.

Besides, even though he’s majorly lacking in nutrients and filled to the brim with injected Nazi chemicals, Bucky feels physically strong. Stronger than he has any right to feel after days, weeks of torture and no meals. He doesn’t spare the brain power to think about why, though. It’s too much, too daunting and full of unanswerable questions.

Mostly, as he and Steve lead the men through the misty, chilly European forestry, he loses himself in the tunnels of his mind, spiralling up and down, running through winding hallways before hitting shadowed dead-ends and retreating back to safety. Flashes of light poking between the trees and overheard snippets of conversation spark various memories of his life and home before the war, some picture perfect and others blurry and hard to make out no matter how much he pushes. He watches them like reels and does his best to permanently stamp them in his brain so that he doesn’t lose them again.

Steve doesn’t attempt to talk with him, seemingly understanding Bucky’s need to be in charge of his own mind and regather as many precious moments as he can. Though, when his mind begins to carry him down an objectionable stream, Steve somehow just _knows_ and lightly knocks their shoulders together, a reassurance that Bucky is no longer alone in the dingy room that claimed his hope and his pride among other parts of him.

 _It’s nice,_ he thinks, Steve being in a body that finally allows him to do what he’s always wanted and be who he always has been inside.

Bucky never imagined that he himself would be one of those little guys that needed someone to lean on in such a way, but it turns out war really does change you. The idea of being alone for even a second is terrifying. He doesn’t trust his mind - he doesn’t trust that any of this is real. Even the thought of there being the slightest possibility that he might wake up on his table with unknown faces hovering over him… it’s genuinely spine-chilling. It’s enough to make him visibly shudder and receive another comforting nudge from Steve, the unbelievable amount of warmth radiating from the now-larger man palpable with barely a touch.

He smiles at his friend, though it probably comes across as more of a grimace, and Steve lifts the corner of his mouth in return, a slight but noticeable drop in his body’s tension as he does so.

They march on, side by side.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

The chair is hard beneath him and the straps that are fastened tightly around his wrists and ankles keep him anchored not only to the seat, but to reality. With every heartless tug he makes, the restraints fight back and remind him that this is real, and that the only way he has any slight chance of getting out is by staying present. The metal he’s sat on and secured to is cold and offers no comfort, biting into his skin through the tears in his stinking and threadbare uniform.

He’s asked who he is by the short man with the softer accent and the glasses. Doctor Zola. From the tone of voice and the hints of poorly concealed frustration that poke out, he deems this to be a regular occurrence.  
One and a half answers come to him. He goes with the partially formed one because the other doesn’t feel right. In fact, it feels very, very wrong; like if he were to say it out loud, that would be the end of him.

“J-James?” he stutters, unsure, but the next part he’s confident in and the strength of his voice grows. “Sergeant, 3255 7038.”

His head is whipped to the side as Zola backhands him. It’s a familiar feeling.

The man’s eyes squint in barely restrained wrath behind his rounded glasses. “Wrong,” he spits. “You are a weapon. You belong to Hydra. You are our Asset, our Soldier. Now, who are you?”

“James, Sergeant, 32-”

This time he bites through his lip with the force of the hit. He feels blood pooling in his mouth and dribbling pathetically down his chin before he spits.

“Wrong again. You are a weapon,” Zola repeats, over and over.

The back and forth between them seems to never end. He loses track of time as the slaps keep coming, sharp and brutal against his cheeks and jaw, and the increasingly angry shouts of ‘ _wrong, wrong, wrong_ ’ weave their way into his fractured mind.

Wrong. Weapon. Asset. Soldier. Hydra. Wrong. WeaponAssetSoldier. BUCKY!

He jerks awake, a heavy gasp falling from his lips, a puff of steam shooting into the icy air. There are two faces above him, their features blurred through the sheen of tears, a sight he’s achingly acquainted with. He shudders and flinches away, trying to free his arms even though he knows there’s no point, he’s not getting free, he never will-

“Bucky, stop! It’s okay, it’s me,” a strained voice comes from one of the smudged faces. “It’s me, it’s Steve.”

He blinks a few times to clear his eyes as he feels the weight of a strong hand on each arm. He tenses against the pressure, but instead of pinning him down, the hands stroke and draw patterns and pass comfort through the restrictive fabric that turns out to be his sleeping bag.

Looking back up, two blond heads come into view, one adorned with a ridiculous bowler hat and moustache and the other with a wrinkled forehead as he pushes his eyebrows together in a deep frown.

Instinctively, he reaches up to smooth out the lines. “Steve?” he whispers, voice croaky and hoarse. He must have been screaming again.

The man, Steve, nods. “Yeah, Buck. You back with us?”

Buck. That’s him. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky.  
And this is Steve Rogers. His Stevie. But he’s not quite right. All of his parts are the same; he has the same soft blue eyes, crooked nose and straw-coloured hair. But something’s off. His body is all wrong, that’s it. He’s got muscle where there should be none and his breathing is smooth and even where it should be rattly and quick.

“I thought you were smaller?”

Strangely, those sad blue eyes get sadder and the hands on Bucky’s arms retreat as the man moves back, allowing Bucky to sit up. “I know, Buck. I’m alright though, I’m still Steve.”  
Steve speaks in such an exhausted and defeated way that Bucky just nods, accepting, and then winces as the movement jars his aching head. “Where are we?”

The other man, the one with the kind face and cigarette hanging from his lips, answers. “Well, kid, it’s February 1944 and we’re all freezing our butts off somewhere in the middle of France. We ain’t in that place anymore,” he reassures, as if he can read Bucky’s mind. Or maybe they’ve done this routine many times before. Bucky can’t quite remember; his brain feels all mushy and hard to sort through. “Thanks to Steve, here,” the man adds as he claps a large, meaty hand onto Steve’s shoulder and smiles cheekily at the both of them.

“Dum Dum, get your ass over here and cook us some grub!” a voice calls from several metres away.

Bucky turns and sees a group of men sitting around a small fire. _His men,_ he suddenly remembers. The Howling Commandos, a ridiculous name for a ridiculous bunch. He feels his lips turn up slightly.

“You alright, Bucky?”

“Yeah, I think so,” he turns back to Steve -big, muscled, warm Steve- and tries to shake away the lingering feeling of panic as he concentrates on the laughter behind him and the crispness of the fresh, free air to remind him that he really isn’t in that stuffy place anymore. He knows that he _knows_ it, but some large and controlling part of his mind just can’t seem to _believe_ it. And apparently that’s a recurring problem.

He briefly wonders when the Howlies will stop bothering to bring him back from his nightmares and his near-daily slips from reality and simply leave him to his shattered mind. He’s a danger to the team as he is; on edge and jumpy, loud in his flashbacks signalling their position to the enemy, spacing out on missions and occasionally missing shots he used to be able to make half asleep.  
Perhaps he should have taken the medical discharge that was offered to him after they returned from Azzano, but back then he didn’t know what Steve was planning, didn’t know that he could completely trust anyone to have Captain America’s six as well as he could. It turns out that maybe these men have got Steve’s back _better_ than he does.

 _Does Steve even need me anymore?_ Bucky thinks, miserably. All that’s left of him are slivers of the man he used to be. He’s more of a liability than a help at this point and he’s pretty sure everyone knows it. Steve’s just too soft to tell him so and take him off the team, even if having him around compromises everyone’s safety. Putting personal feelings before his men; that’s a lapse in leadership if Bucky ever saw one, but Steve Rogers has got plenty more redeeming qualities as a Captain and even more as a soldier and as a man. It’s about time that other people have started to see what he could all along. Like Peggy…

“Buck?” the name worms its way into his head and pulls him out as he starts to get lost in thought again.

“I’m fine, Steve!” Bucky snaps, shaken and shameful at his last fleeting muse, but is instantly regretful of causing the flash of hurt which crosses his friend’s face. It’s not Steve’s fault that Bucky is weak and broken. There’s a pause in the chatter, signalling the others had heard and were now doing a horrible job of pretending not to listen further. A wave of exhaustion topples over him and he sighs defeatedly, crumpling in on himself. “Let’s just go and eat, shall we?” he offers as an apology, looking up at Steve and hoping the man takes it.

“Sure, pal,” the blonde offers a hand to pull him up, “if you say so.”

And that’s as good as Bucky knows he’ll be getting. It’s an acceptance full of worry and concern and perhaps a slight disbelief, but it is an acceptance nonetheless. They will be okay. 

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

Bucky has never liked the cold. Over the years, the cold always meant a further rationing of food and scavenging for more hats, coats and gloves. It also meant bodily shivers and myriad sicknesses that he was never sure Steve would get through. He feels the all-consuming clutch of the cold now, as he stands tall on the edge of a mountain, sleet and icy breeze whipping around him, carving into his exposed skin. Looking over the valley, everything is white, crisp and untouched. He supposes it’s beautiful, in a way; no matter how much pain and death the land may see, nature will always come back sooner or later and blanket it in a layer of snow, not quite erasing the past but generously providing a chance to move on from it. Maybe it is grand and poetic, but he still hates the cold.

Doing his best to shrug off the frigid beast's grasp, Bucky turns to Steve and the Howlies as they prepare for their latest assignment. The train is due in a couple of minutes and they run through the plan one more time. His job is straightforward in theory; jump on the train, get to the front, grab Zola.  
Grab Zola… this is where is gets complicated in practice. Bucky is anxious -if not utterly afraid- to face the scientist in person. It’s hard enough reliving his torture with every ephemeral blink of his eyes, never knowing if he’s truly free or if this is all an elaborate mind game. If Zola gets his hands back on Bucky, there’s no telling what more horrors await him.

But no, that won’t happen. This is his mission and he won’t fail, he _can’t_ fail. Losing himself to that monster again is not an option; far too many lives depend on their success. Bucky knows his team is worried about him. He can see it in their eyes how hard they’re trying not to ask once more if he’s sure he can do this, if he doesn’t want to sit this one out. They know he won’t.  
He supposes he’s much like his best friend in the sense that, given the right circumstances, his stubbornness will outperform everything else in play. Bucky needs this to succeed to prove to himself that he can defeat Zola, both in his mind and in the real world, so that next time he finds himself slipping away, he can be sure that he’ll find his way back.

Attaching himself to the zipline, Bucky shuts off the very large part of his mind that screams at him not to take the leap. He takes a deep breath and does what he’s always done: he follows Steve.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

The fight isn’t particularly long, but Bucky is drained in any case. He feels it down to his bones as he shoots his last bullet and takes cover behind a stack of boxes.  
Gabe should have made it to Zola by now, and he could hear Steve warring with some kind of mechanised combatant in the next carriage. It sounded like a fair match physically, which means Steve will likely come out on top with his quick thinking and strategic moves. They might actually accomplish this mission with only himself as a casualty. It’ll go down in the books and in history as a success and that’s what matters, really.

He could prove them wrong, though. He could stop being the shaky, unstable shard of a man huddled in a corner awaiting his doom, and he could get himself out alive, too. A powerful surge, a combination of will and spite and determination, washes over him as he grits his teeth and prepares to launch himself into a hand-to-hand spar the second his adversary comes into view.

Bucky peeks out from behind the wall of containers in a pause of gunfire, only to spy his opponent approaching confidently, almost leisurely. The man’s footsteps are loud even in the midst of battle, but maybe that’s just Bucky’s senses zeroing in on his fate. He tries to slow his breathing and look for any other way out before he breaks cover but there’s nothing around that he can use as a weapon and no paths of escape.

Until there is. Right as he’s about to get up, the door between the compartments slides open next to him and Steve is throwing him a gun.

In the minutes that follow, everything is blurry rush of instincts and heightened adrenaline levels, only clearing up as Bucky dangles over the edge of the speeding train. Below him, he can see the valley that he looked over earlier, just as serene yet so much more chilling and predatory now. Above him is Steve, half leaning out of the carriage himself, extending an arm to him and calling his name. Bucky reaches back even as he knows that for the first time ever, Steve’s utmost efforts won’t be enough. His own last-ditch attempt at survival won’t be enough.

Maybe it’s for the best.

There’s a horrible screeching of metal on metal as the railing breaks. Bucky heart jumps into his throat as he looks up into Steve’s sad, earnest, _desperate_ blue eyes for the last time. There isn’t any chance to apologise as the air is ripped from his lungs and gravity claims him. As he descends through the storm plummeting faster than any of the millions of untroubled snowflakes around him, Bucky’s final thought is that he’s free; life has finally loosened its harsh grasp on his exhausted, tortured soul. The meat hooks that were buried in his brain, stringing him up and keeping him firmly locked and fastened onto the mortal plane; they’ve been torn out.

And now,  
he’s released,  
ready to die,  
at last granted peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The train scene was not supposed to be an exact rewrite of the way the movie had it go down, considering I’ve kinda messed up Bucky’s brain in the previous chapters. If you read it expecting the movie and were confused or disappointed about Bucky’s mindset and all of the characters’ actions, I might suggest reading it again or perhaps finding some kind of magic spell to make me a better writer lmao.
> 
> xx


	4. remembered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> remember - have in or be able to bring to one's mind an awareness of (someone or something from the past); pray for the well-being of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little somethin’-somethin’ from Steve’s perspective to tie it up.

A part of Steve is relieved.

He is disgusted and horrified to discover that fact. He’s sitting alone at a rickety table, haunting the deserted pub and trying to get drunk enough to forget, when he finds his mourning interrupted by a surge of respite. Respite followed by a bucketful of hate for the little corner of his mind that decided to pipe up with such a nauseating thought. How could he think and feel something like this?

His best friend, his pal, his buddy, _his Bucky._ He’s gone. Dead.

And Steve is relieved.

Because Bucky wasn’t himself when he fell. He hadn’t been the same since Azzano and everyone who worked with him, however briefly it may have been, knew it. Whatever Zola had done to Bucky had irreversibly changed him, and not for the better.

When Steve had found him strapped to that awful, rusted, dried-blood-covered table, his heart had splintered its first damage. Bucky had been there, lying limply with strange bruising patterned on his face, muttering his rank and service number -though not his name, for some yet undiscovered reason-, over and over in a mumbled voice that was dry and gravelly from lack of water. Since that moment, the cracks in Steve’s heart only spread further with each breakdown and nightmare and softly murmured _“I thought you were smaller”_.

There were holes in Bucky’s brain that the brunet was constantly, unconsciously working to fix. It seemed like every time he finally got one gaping crater sealed, another would burst open and take a new set of memories from him. Every day, Bucky was fighting to recover pieces of himself while also battling a tangible war, one with a lot more guns and blood and death. He couldn’t catch a break in this Hell that was so much larger than he and Steve, two tiny specks, unable to find their places on this immense planet.

Bucky had been too young to be that marred.

On good days, Bucky almost seemed like his old, carefree self. He would interact with the Howlies, dance and joke and laugh, and contribute clever alternatives to some of the more ambitious and problematic parts of their missions. His brain worked as well as it always had, his outside-of-the-box thinking often producing solutions that nobody else could have seen.  
But then his face would line with confusion and worry, like he was trying to grasp a thought or a memory that was hovering just out of his reach. Every now and then, it seemed as though he’d managed to get a hold of whatever he was chasing, and his face would either relax into a soft smile or his expression would turn darker than the looming clouds of a Parisian summer storm.  
The former would leave him subdued but seemingly content for the remainder of their waking hours. The latter would turn a good day into a bad day.

On bad days, it was damn near impossible to get any words out of him. Bucky would hover in the background, not offering input on the team’s plans even when prompted for his opinion. He would flinch at the slightest of sounds, jerking when Dugan wasn’t careful enough to lower his boisterous voice, or cowering away from the distant gunshots of rifle training. If someone moved too quickly in his vision, it was all over. A weak and stuttered recital of his rank and service number, and then Bucky’s eyes would glaze over as he transported himself somewhere else in his mind, somewhere better perhaps.  
Nobody knew what to do when he reached that stage of distress. The first time it happened, they’d actually laughed, thinking Bucky was messing around, teasing them. It only took one light, playful shove from Morita to have Bucky screaming, collapsing to the floor and writhing as though he was being drowned in acid. His piercing howl had the whole room covering their ears, no sign that a smile had ever been written across their faces. That mistake was never made again.

Eventually, after several heart-breaking learning experiences, they had concluded that the best way to manage Bucky’s lapses from reality were to continue what they’d been doing at the time of his checking out. They made sure to use calming tones when they spoke, so that any background noise he was hearing -if he was hearing anything at all- wasn’t sharp or traumatic.  
If they were in a situation where it was possible to wait out the blankness, they would do so graciously, keeping an eye on him as he wavered in is spot. If they weren’t -if they were out in the field- it was a different story altogether. Those times were the worst, with each Howlie needing to take shifts to watch over Bucky and make sure he didn’t get killed or give away their position if he started yelling, begging and pleading for the cessation of whatever was happening to him inside his mind, his memories.

So yes, Steve is relieved.

At least now, in endless sleep, Bucky can be whoever he wants to be, with no nightmares to dwell on and no mortality holding him back. He’s free from this world of hate and torture and war, and above all, he’s finally free from the Nazi mad man who fried his brain two steps too far.

Steve draws a heavy breath into his lungs via his aching throat, tight with grief and the effort of holding back tears. There is still nobody around the dilapidated bar; just him, the splinters of wrecked furniture, and the dusty bottle of bourbon that isn’t working to intoxicate him like he desperately desires.

With Bucky gone, it feels harder to keep going. Even with a team behind him, supporting his every move and trusting him to no end, he feels alone, abandoned. Not only that, but the pressure on him from the government and from himself… well, it’s suffocating. He doesn’t know how much longer before he stops being able to breathe altogether. It’s almost ironic; he finds himself a brand-new set of lungs that actually work and he’s still struggling to fill them and stay afloat.

Soft yet confident footsteps behind him alert Steve to Peggy’s arrival and he sighs, preparing himself to somehow get through the next few battles without Bucky by his side. He can’t count the times he’s nearly died in his life, both at the hands of Pestilence and War, but surviving this loss will perhaps be harder than each of those experiences combined.

God help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that’s it from me for this fic. For those that made it this far, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did love bringing it to life. 
> 
> xx


End file.
